by Emma Fraser
Emma Fraser trained as a nurse in Edinburgh and worked in Glasgow before leaving nursing to study English Literature at Aberdeen University. Several years working for the National Health Service followed before Emma started writing full time. Always fascinated by the strong women heroines of the past, she wanted to write a book about the first female doctors. During her research, she stumbled across the story of the Scottish Women’s Hospitals during World War One and When the Dawn Breaks was the result.
Her second book, We Shall Remember, was also inspired by real events, and set during World War Two. Both books were shortlisted for the Epic Romantic Novel RoNA award. In The Shipbuilder’s Daughter, Emma has turned to the turbulent period between the wars and the book is set partly in Glasgow and partly in the Western Isles – where her parents, both Gaelic speakers, were born. Emma currently lives in Glasgow with her husband.
Also by Emma Fraser
When the Dawn Breaks
We Shall Remember
COPYRIGHT
Published by Sphere
978-0-7515-6609-3
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © Emma Fraser 2017
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
SPHERE
Little, Brown Book Group
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London, EC4Y 0DZ
www.littlebrown.co.uk
www.hachette.co.uk
The Shipbuilder’s Daughter
Table of Contents
About the Author
Also by Emma Fraser
COPYRIGHT
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Acknowledgements
To my Hebridean family, past and present.
Prologue
Glasgow, 1920
The scream was like nothing Margaret had ever heard before and seemed to go on forever. She dropped her book and clapped her hands over her ears. Almost worse was the awful silence that descended a few moments later.
Her heart hammering, she ran to the window and looked outside. Although her father’s office was on the third floor, only a fraction of the shipyard was visible; the rest, sprawling alongside the Clyde, was hidden from view. Beneath her a crowd was gathering, converging on something she couldn’t quite see through the grimy window.
She used the sleeve of her dress in an attempt to clear a patch, but all she managed to do was smudge it more. As urgent shouts filled the silence of moments before, she sped downstairs, emerging into the soot-filled air, her breath coming in painful gasps. She hesitated, suddenly reluctant to discover what horror had precipitated the blood-curdling screams.
‘Where are you going, Miss Bannatyne?’ a man asked, grabbing her by the elbow.
‘What’s happened? Is it my father?’
His lip curled. ‘No, it’s not your father. What would he be doing down here? It’s an accident. Nothing unusual, but not summat a young lass like you should see. Better go back indoors.’
She shook his arm away. ‘Let me go!’ She couldn’t just go back inside – she had to see for herself.
Eyes fixed on the huddle of men obscuring her view, she threaded her way through the grime-stained figures, their stale sweat mingling with the smell of burning coal, welded steel and other odours too foreign to identify, until she was standing inside the circle of onlookers. One of the workers, his face deathly pale, lay on the ground, pinned down by several steel girders. Blood seeped from beneath him, staining the dust red and, just visible through his torn trousers, white bone glistened through a ragged gash in his lower leg. Margaret clamped her hand over her mouth to stop herself from crying out. Part of her wanted to turn away, to slip back through the mass of bodies and return to the safety of her father’s office, but another, stronger part couldn’t tear her eyes away from the scene unfolding in front of her.
The injured man groaned, sweat trickling down his face and pooling in the hollow of his neck. He looked up at his colleagues with frightened, pain-filled eyes. ‘Help me. For God’s sake.’
His pleas galvanised the group into action. Several men jostled past her, almost pushing her to the ground. One of them crouched by his side and grabbed the end of the girder. He turned back to the watching men. ‘We need to get the weight off him. Come on, men, put your backs into it.’
‘Stop!’
The shout, loud enough to be heard over the clanging metal, stopped the men in their tracks. Way above her head, so high up she had to crane her neck to see, a shipyard worker was standing on the scaffolding surrounding the ship currently under construction.
Ignoring the ladders connecting the different levels, he ran across a narrow plank, grabbed hold of a steel pole and swung down to the levels below. As he descended at breakneck speed, Margaret held her breath. If he wasn’t careful, he could easily plunge to his death.
But within moments he was on the ground and the crowd parted to let him through.
‘Jimmy,’ he said, addressing the man who had ordered the others to move the girders, ‘we’ll not be able to lift those off him without a crane. Get one over here. Toni, fetch the stretcher. And a cart too.’
The new arrival couldn’t be much older than her, yet to her surprise the men did his bidding without argument. He shoved dark hair out of his eyes and knelt by the injured man’s side. ‘How are you holding up, Hamish?’
‘I’ve been better, Alasdair. I’ve a feeling I’ll no’ be home for my tea.’
A brief smile crossed the younger man’s face as he ran his hands across Hamish’s body. ‘Aye, well. I’ll get someone to let the wife know. In the meantime, let me have a look see.’
Why didn’t they lift the girders off Hamish? He needed to get to a hospital as soon as possible. Why were the workers listening to this man? Where was her father? He should be here, telling them what to do.
‘Alasdair, lad, we have to get him out from under that weight,’ one of the men said. It appeared she wasn’t the only one wondering about the delay.
The dark-haired man shook his head. ‘He’s punctured an artery at the top of his leg. The pressure of the girders
is stopping him from bleeding like a pig. If we take them off without putting on a tourniquet first, he’ll not last more than a few minutes.’ He yanked off his belt and wrapped it around the top of the injured man’s thigh. ‘Hold on, Hamish. We’re going to move you in a bit. I just need to do something first.’
He glanced up, his eyes narrowing as he caught sight of her. ‘You. Do you have anything I can use as a bandage?’
Margaret stiffened. He’d spoken to her as if she were a nobody. Anyway, she didn’t have a handkerchief and her dress was stained with soot from the yard. ‘No. I’m sorry.’
‘You’re wearing a petticoat, aren’t you? Tear a strip off and pass it to me.’
As several pairs of eyes swivelled in her direction, she blushed. ‘I can’t do that. Not in front of everyone.’
‘You’re going to have to. There’s nothing else. I need something to staunch the bleeding that’s not covered in muck.’
‘That’s Bannatyne’s lass,’ one of the men said. ‘Best leave her out of it.’
‘I don’t care if she’s the Queen of Sheba. She shouldn’t be here, but since she is, she can help.’
Her face burning, Margaret lifted the hem of her dress. She tried to rip a piece off her petticoat but couldn’t make even the tiniest tear. ‘I can’t.’
Alasdair gave an exasperated shake of his head. ‘Someone help her.’ When no one made a move, he rose to his feet. ‘Is the crane here?’
‘Aye, son. And the stretcher.’
‘Right then, secure the poles.’ While the men started tying ropes around the girders, Alasdair stepped towards her. Before she could stop him, he lifted her dress and tore a strip from her petticoat with his teeth.
He looked up at her and a smile flitted across his face. ‘Sorry, Miss Bannatyne.’ He was so close she could see the freckles scattered across his face. Thick, long lashes framed eyes the colour of the sky in winter.
As soon as the ropes were tied, Alasdair knelt once more on the ground beside the injured man. ‘Hamish, I know it hurts like buggery now, but it’s going to hurt even more when we lift the girders. You can yell as loud as you like. No one here will mind.’ He squeezed Hamish’s shoulder. ‘Right, lads. As slowly and as carefully as you can.’
The ropes tightened, then inch by inch, the lengths of steel began to lift. Hamish screamed, his arms thrashing about in agony. Margaret watched in horror as blood spurted over Alasdair’s hands.
‘Hold still, Hamish. For the love of God, just hold still.’
If Hamish could hear Alasdair he was in too much pain to pay heed. He continued to flail his arms, trying to push Alasdair away.
‘Someone hold him down, for God’s sake!’ Alasdair shouted, his bloodied fingers slipping on the straps of his makeshift tourniquet.
One of the men pressed down on Hamish’s shoulders and Alasdair tightened the belt until the blood slowed to a trickle. Satisfied, he moved on to the gash in Hamish’s lower leg, wrapping the strips of Margaret’s torn petticoat tightly over the wound. Within moments his temporary bandage had turned red.
‘Pass me some planks,’ he ordered.
Eager hands thrust several at him. He discarded a few before selecting four of equal length. He placed one on either side of each of Hamish’s legs and tied them quickly with more belts.
‘Let’s get him onto the stretcher, lads,’ he said. ‘Go carefully. His legs are likely broken. The planks will help – but only a little.’
As they moved him, Hamish screamed again, then mercifully fell silent. They laid his unconscious body on the stretcher and set it on the back of the cart.
‘Take him to the Infirmary. As quickly as you can. Avoid the potholes. I’ll let the boss know what’s happened, once I find out what went wrong.’
‘Is he going to be all right?’ Margaret asked, grabbing Alasdair’s arm.
‘You need to leave, Miss,’ he replied curtly. His expression softened. ‘There’s no more any of us can do here. It’s up to the doctors at the hospital now.’ He turned back towards the men. ‘Right. Those who have nothing to say about what happened, back to work.’
As the cart rolled away she looked up. Her father was standing at his office window, staring down. Doing nothing. Just looking.
‘What in God’s name were you doing down there?’ her father barked when she returned to the office. Mr Ferguson, her father’s manager, was standing next to him. Why had neither of them come to help?
‘There was an accident. Didn’t you see?’ Her heart was still beating so fast she felt light-headed.
‘It’s a shipyard, Margaret. There’s always accidents. You had no business to be down there getting in the way. I asked you to stay in my office until I returned. Why can you never do as you’re told?’
Tears stung the back of her lids. The day had started with so much promise. When her father had suggested she come with him to the shipyard she’d been thrilled. It was the first time he’d ever invited her to go anywhere with him.
‘I brought you here, Margaret,’ her father continued, ‘so you can see what your sons will inherit one day, not to be showing your undergarments to the men. Look at the state of you!’
She shook her head impatiently. ‘I wasn’t in the way. I helped. They needed a bit of my petticoat to use as a bandage. They had nothing else.’ What did the state of her clothing matter when a man had been badly hurt? ‘What do you think will happen to him? Can we go to the hospital to find out?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Margaret. I don’t have time to go checking up on the men every time one of them gets injured.’
‘But he’s really hurt! Don’t you want to make sure he’s all right?’
‘Ferguson will let me know in the morning. Now let’s get you home before the men have anything more to talk about,’ her father said. ‘Really, Margaret. I only left you for a short while. All you had to do was wait for me.’
It hadn’t been a short while. It had been over two hours.
He picked up his hat, but before they could leave there was a sharp knock on the door and without waiting for an invitation to enter, Alasdair strode into the office. His arms and hands were still covered with Hamish’s blood, the front of his shirt splashed with crimson. Taller than her father by a few inches, and muscular without being stocky, his dark hair was longer than most men wore it and tousled as if he’d just climbed out of bed. Despite Alasdair’s dishevelled appearance and workman’s clothes that contrasted sharply with her father’s hand-made suit and crisp white shirt, the men shared the same undeniable air of authority. And, while Alasdair’s manner with Hamish had been gentle and kind, his eyes were now slate-grey cold, and his full mouth set in a grim line.
‘What are you doing in here, Morrison?’ Mr Ferguson said, with an anxious glance at Margaret’s father. ‘I’m sorry, sir. The men know they aren’t permitted to come up to the office.’
‘I wouldn’t have had to if you’d come down. The front scaffolding collapsed. I’ve had to send Hamish McKillop to hospital.’
‘Anything you want to tell me can wait,’ Mr Ferguson said.
‘No it can’t. That scaffolding wouldn’t have collapsed if it had been erected properly and not in a rush. We’ve told you before. There’s too much cutting corners going on. Mr Bannatyne needs to be aware of that.’
‘Mr Ferguson runs the yard,’ Margaret’s father snapped.
Alasdair turned his wintry eyes to her father. ‘He might run the yard but he does it under your orders. That’s the third accident this month. The workers have the right to a safe workplace.’
Margaret had never heard anyone speak to her father like that before.
Her father’s face suffused with colour. ‘And who are you to tell me how to operate my yard? Get the blazes out of my office and back to work.’
Mr Ferguson stepped forward and took Alasdair by the elbow. ‘On you go, Morrison.’
Alasdair stared at the hand on his arm until Mr Ferguson released his grip. ‘I’ll go,’ he said
quietly. ‘But the men won’t be working on that ship until the scaffolding has been checked.’ With a scathing look at Mr Ferguson, he turned on his heel and left.
‘Who is that whippersnapper? What makes him think he has the right to speak to me like that?’ her father demanded, his voice shaking with fury.
Mr Ferguson twisted the cap in his hand. ‘His name is Alasdair Morrison, sir – one of the time-served riveters and their foreman.’
‘Ian Morrison’s son?’
‘The same.’
‘Damn that man. And his son. How the hell did Morrison’s lad come to be working in my yard?’
